"
"I don't mind her swimming well," Robert returned. "But I understand
that she's been able to drown quite a number of people better able to
look after themselves than you are. As far as you're concerned, it
seems--rather a pity."
Cosgrave shook his head. A certain quiet obstinacy, not altogether
that of intoxication, came into his flushed face. And yet he looked
sorry and almost ashamed.
"I'm not going to drown. You know--I hate standing out against you,
Robert. You've been so--so jolly decent to me--and I believe in
you--more than in anything in the world. Always have done. If you
said 'the earth's square,' I'd say, 'Why, yes, so it is--old chap!' But
this--this is different--it's like a dog eating grass--a sort of
instinct."
"Instinct!" Robert echoed ironically. "If you know where most
instincts lead to----" He stopped, and then went on in a cold,
matter-of-fact tone, as though he were diagnosing a disease. "It's not
my business--but since you've come here I'd be interested to hear what
you think is going to be the end of it all. I might persuade you to
look facts in the face. By position you're a little suburban nobody,
who was pushed out to West Africa to become a third-rate little trader.
You've survived, and you've got a little money to burn. To you it
seems a fortune. But it won't pay this woman's cigarette bills. She
makes you ridiculous."
"I am ridiculous," Cosgrave interrupted patiently.
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